The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  Sirocco eventually settled into a smooth rhythm, and Gwen’s eyes began to drift shut. She tried to keep them open, but she finally gave up and fell asleep against Richard’s chest.

  * * *

  Richard turned to look at the train stretched out behind the company of knights. He’d had to call for a walk long ago. Anne’s baggage could not keep up with knights on the move. Jesú, at this snail’s pace they would never make Oswestry! He could not see the sun for the clouds, but he guessed it to be past midday.

  He cursed Anne under his breath, and Ned for making him bring her. Though he doubted her reason for this journey, mayhap he was wrong. She’d not cared for her husband much, but her son was growing up quickly and would be lord of Ashford Hall in another few years. How old was Tristan now? Eight or nine, surely.

  Sir Thomas of Ashford had been many years older than Anne when they married. When she had given him a son, Thomas was overjoyed, but then the poor man died in a border skirmish, as so many of the men living in the March did.

  For a time, Anne had hoped to better her station by marrying him. In the end she’d had to be satisfied with being his mistress. He felt no guilt over it. Anne would spread her legs for any man with money and power. She had benefited as much as he from the pleasurable hours spent in bed together.

  But even had he wanted, he could not have married her. She was a burgher’s daughter and a knight’s widow. She did not have rank, or land, or money—the things an earl needed in a bride, the things Elizabeth had when he married her.

  Ned had found a way around Dunsmore’s lack of wealth when they first returned to England. He had given Richard an heiress with land and money almost equal to that of Gilbert de Clare.

  Richard squinted into the distance, trying to push away the memories of his first wife. On one side of them rose a tall forest of oak and evergreen. On the other were open fields of hay and, in the springtime, heather. Up ahead the road branched, one path leading into the forest, the other through the fields.

  They would stick to the open country. With Anne’s belongings screaming their presence, ’twas better to stay in the open, even though the forest path was the quicker.

  Richard squeezed the reins, bearing down until the mail gauntlet bit into his flesh. Poor Elizabeth. He had never done right by her. He had married her for her possessions, and she knew it. She had loved him anyway, even though he didn’t love her. He’d failed her in the end, just like he’d failed his father.

  Richard looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms and had a sudden feeling that even had she possessed nothing, he would have married her anyway. He shook his head. It was a fanciful notion brought on by his feverish desire to have her. Once he’d made her his wife in deed as well as name, he would no longer have such ridiculous ideas.

  Her hood had fallen back to reveal her face. Richard studied her. He could look as long as he liked and she’d never know. And he did like to look at her.

  Long dark lashes feathered softly against pale cheeks. Tendrils of autumn-colored hair had come free from her braid and ringed her face in loose, spiraling curls. Her generous lips were parted like the petals of a blushing-rose, tormenting him with remembered kisses.

  Her body was soft in sleep, molding to him so trustingly. Richard shifted in the saddle as he thought of her naked and in his arms just like this. Nay, not like this. Better. He pictured her beneath him, her body molded intimately to his, his masculine flesh surrounded by her silken heat. He shifted again. Chainmail and saddles were not designed for a man’s comfort when aroused.

  A fat droplet of rain smacked against Richard’s helm, echoing in his ears. He snapped his head back. The sky was black. He swore vehemently. “Andrew!”

  The captain of the guard reined his horse in beside Richard. “Aye, milord?”

  “We have to find shelter. The women cannot ride in a storm.” He paused, scanning the treeline. “We’re still too far from Oswestry. Llanwell cave is near, is it not?”

  Andrew grimaced, then nodded. “Aye, milord.”

  The wind began to swirl around them, the raindrops falling faster. Gwen stirred as the water hit her face. Richard tightened his arm about her waist. “We’ll have to take a chance on it then!”

  14

  The company changed direction, leaving the road and threading through the dense forest. The trees deflected the rain somewhat, but the force of the storm grew greater with each passing minute until even the trees no longer protected them.

  Gwen pulled her hood down over her eyes. Forest smells of evergreen and lichen hung in the air, mixing with the smell of wet horse. The cold wind pressed fingers of ice into her skin. She clung to Richard for warmth, but his armor prevented most of it from reaching her.

  After what seemed like hours, they finally stopped. Richard sent a handful of knights forward. They returned a short time later, reporting that the cave he sought was empty.

  It was located at the rear of a small clearing. The ground sloped gently uphill to the entrance, littered with leaves and fallen branches. The opening was wide enough for two men to pass through side by side, and tall enough for the tallest man, which she supposed had to be Richard.

  They sheltered the animals beneath a stand of thick trees close to the entrance. Richard dismounted first, then held out his arms. Gwen slid into them, and he carried her inside.

  The cave was large, much bigger than any she and Rhys had explored on Snowdon. Straw littered the floor and a pit had been dug in the center, the remains of charred logs still lying in it.

  The ceiling was not very high. Spikes of rock hung from it like daggers, and Richard had to duck more than once. A man returned from the depths and reported that nothing was to be found before the cave dead-ended. Richard dismissed him and turned to the man at his side.

  “We’ll have to build a fire, Andrew.”

  “Milord, ’tis not a good idea.”

  “I know.” Gwen clung to him, shivering. “Do it anyway. The ladies will freeze otherwise.”

  “Aye, we’ve enough of us to protect ‘em, I suppose.”

  “We’ll never make Oswestry at the pace we’ve been going, even if the storm subsides. We stay here tonight.”

  “Aye, milord.” Andrew turned on his heel and went to direct the men.

  “What does he mean, protect us?” Gwen asked.

  Richard set her down. “’Tis the borderland, Gwen. There are always things to be protected from.”

  It was an odd thing to feel a tremor of fear here in the March. Even though clans waged war against one another, Gwen had always felt safe atop Snowdon.

  “Once we’ve set up, I’ll make sure you get to change into something dry.”

  Gwen nodded and he left her to join the men.

  Alys hurried over. “We must get you some dry clothes, Highness,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

  “I am fine, Alys. Take care of yourself. We will change and warm ourselves by a fire soon enough.”

  Anne Ashford sauntered over, her two maids close on her heels. “Well, my dear. We meet again it seems.”

  Gwen clamped down on her chattering teeth. “Indeed.”

  Anne removed her sodden wimple. “I remember you well. You’re all grown up now, and such a pretty thing too. Aye, it makes me wonder what it is you lack that would send Richard to my door on his wedding night.” She shook out her pale hair until it hung, straight and smooth, to her hips.

  Gwen’s stomach turned to ice. “I really do not care as to my husband’s whereabouts. ’Tis of no concern to me.”

  “’Tis good then, since he is a man of immense appetites. He could never be faithful to you, dear.”

  Gwen flipped her hood back, then concentrated on wringing out her sleeves.

  Anne laughed softly. “No doubt you are remembering his passion in the marriage bed. ’Tis so short-lived, passion. It takes much more than that to keep them interested once the new has worn off.”

  When Gwen still did not answer, A
nne shrugged. “’Tis no concern of mine, but I will offer you some advice anyway. Don’t lose your heart to him. He’ll give it back to you in pieces.”

  Gwen raised her head, strangely sympathetic at that moment. “Is that what he did to you?”

  Anne laughed gaily. “Oh no, of course not. Richard is a very interesting bed partner, but not the sort of man a sensible woman would fall in love with.” She flashed her teeth in a condescending smile, then moved away, her maids behind her.

  “That woman is a witch,” Alys hissed.

  “Aye,” Gwen said. “But no doubt she tells the truth. I cannot blame her for that.”

  Alys merely looked at her, disbelieving.

  “Where else could he have been last night? He was gone for most of the evening. I let him in myself shortly before sunrise.”

  Alys shook her head. “I still do not believe her. She seeks to unsettle you with all that talk. You should not listen.”

  Gwen put her hands on her hips. “You are entirely too taken in by him. He is not the kind man you think he is. He is Black Hawk!”

  Alys turned red. “I know what is said of him, but I also know what my eyes tell me, child. I always trust my eyes. Words lie, the eyes do not.”

  Gwen knew Alys would not be convinced. Ever since Richard had apologized to her, Alys was his champion. The woman who had been a mother to Gwen for most of her nineteen years had been stolen from her by smooth words and a winning smile.

  Gwen turned away, angry that he left no part of her life untouched. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d taken everything.

  Gwen stomped over and sank down against the wall. She already intended to pay him back for so many things. This was just one more item to add to the growing list.

  In a very little while, the men had a fire going. They cordoned off an area of the cave with ropes, securing them on the daggers of rock hanging from the ceiling, then hung blankets to section it off for the women. Thankfully, they created two rooms. One for Gwen and Alys, the other for Anne and her maids.

  Gwen was glad for that. She did not want to spend the entire night in the same room as Anne. Of course, mayhap Richard could have lain between them, gifting them each with a kiss and a caress from time to time. Gwen did not find the thought very amusing.

  She slipped into a silk chemise and wool overgown, then donned a thick mantle lined with fox.

  When she emerged to stand beside the fire, Richard came to her side. Water dripped from his surcoat and pooled at his feet. His helm was gone and his face was streaked with dirt. He no longer wore his gauntlets. Rusty water trickled from under his mail sleeves, staining his wrists and hands.

  “Aren’t you cold in all that metal?” Gwen asked.

  Amusement lit his features. “Aye, sweet, I am.”

  “Why do you not take it off then?”

  His voice was husky when he spoke. “Promise you will say that to me when we reach Claiborne castle.”

  Gwen blushed. She turned back to the fire, hoping she could blame the red glow on the heat. Why did the damn man affect her so?

  He laughed. “As much as I would like, if I were to take it off here, who would protect me from cutthroats?”

  “I never thought of that,” Gwen admitted.

  * * *

  The storm whipped through the trees, whistling and blowing, for hours. When at last it quieted, darkness had settled in for the night.

  Gwen went to bed when Richard joined his men at watch, only awaking when something big lowered itself beside her. The scream died in her throat as a hand clamped over her mouth and eased her back.

  Her heart slowed as her sleepy senses registered Richard’s familiar scent. He removed his hand carefully.

  “You scared me!” she said. “Where is Alys?”

  “With Lady Ashford and her maids.”

  He climbed beneath the blanket and stretched out beside her. He still wore the mail, but at least he was dry.

  “I did not mean to wake you,” he said.

  “What time is it?”

  “’Twill be daylight before too long.”

  “Do you ever sleep, my lord?” Gwen asked. Had he been with Anne just now, too?

  He pulled her into his arms. Gwen did not protest, even though his armor was hard and cold. “Sometimes,” he breathed.

  He nuzzled her hair. Gwen shivered. God, it would be so easy to believe he was sincere in the things he did to her. But she could not, because that was the object of his game. A notorious ladies’ man, Elinor had once told her.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Nay.”

  “Then why are you shaking?”

  “I am not shaking,” she lied.

  “You’re afraid of me.”

  Gwen started to deny it, but stopped before the words could form. She was afraid of him. Afraid of the way her heart quickened when he was near. Afraid of the way her body responded when he touched her, despite knowing who and what he was.

  The fire burned softly in the middle of the cave, casting a buttery light into the makeshift chamber. His face was shadowed, but she caught the glint of an eye when he moved his head.

  “I’ve not given you much reason to be anything other than frightened, have I?” He released her. Gwen felt a twinge of disappointment. It was kind of nice to be held close in the middle of the night when the world was dark and still. Reassuring somehow.

  She reached for him, touched his hand. It happened so quickly that she did not realize she had done it until it was too late. “I… I know you will not hurt me.”

  He let his breath out on a long sigh, then turned on his side to face her.

  “Are we truly in danger here, my lord?”

  “I would hear my name on your lips,” he said, tracing her lower lip with his finger.

  Gwen turned away. He gripped her chin gently and pulled her back. She gasped as his lips brushed across hers.

  “Y-you did not ask,” she said.

  “I forgot,” he whispered. His kiss was soft, gentle. Gwen’s heart pounded furiously. When his tongue sought entrance, she did not deny him.

  But it was different this time. Not the hot, almost desperate stroke of tongue on tongue, but a slow sensuous glide that wreaked havoc on Gwen’s senses.

  When she was certain she could take no more, he stopped as if he knew it, then traced a burning path down her neck. Her hands stole to his hair.

  He lifted away and she opened her eyes to find him watching her. “My lord?”

  He brushed his lips across hers. “Say it.”

  “W-what?”

  His tongue caressed her lower lip. She shivered. “The way you said it before,” he whispered.

  She stiffened. “I—”

  “Say it.”

  “Richard,” she said on a sigh.

  Softly, he claimed her mouth, deepening the kiss with each passing second. Gwen was breathless by the time he terminated the contact.

  “See, ’twas not so hard, was it?”

  “Nay.”

  This was not the way it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be cruel and evil. She’d even been prepared to martyr herself. To submit to him, to his cruelty, to always know the pain he inflicted upon her was through no fault of her own. God, it would be so easy to hate him if he would only do it!

  And yet he was a different man in the quiet hour before dawn. The hard edges were softened, almost gone. He was gentle somehow, a flesh and blood man with hopes and dreams.

  She could almost believe him capable of love in these moments. But nay, his heart was as black as his name. She must not ever forget it!

  He traced her jaw. “There is always a chance in the March that we will come across a hostile raiding party. Or a band of brigands. The road to Chester is full of travelers making pilgrimages to Holywell. Robbers hide out in these caves, emerging to waylay them and make off with the jewels and money they have brought for offerings.”

  Gwen shivered. This was something she knew a little about from lis
tening to her father’s councils. “My father does not sanction the raiding parties. He says the might of England cannot be stopped with small bands of Welshmen striking haphazardly through the March.”

  Richard’s finger stilled. When she looked at him again, his eyes were hard and cold.

  “’Tis almost amusing to hear you say so, my dear. But you see, I know better. Your father is as murderous and dishonest as the Sultan of Egypt was.”

  Gwen wanted to deny it, started to deny it, but could not. The pain in his voice was too real, too raw. Instead, she said very quietly, “Why do you say that?”

  “Of course you could not know,” he said half to himself, then louder, “My father was killed in a raid. All the men in his party were massacred, except one. That man swore Prince Llywelyn led the raid.”

  “Nay,” Gwen whispered. She grabbed his hand. “He would not do it. I know he would not. ’Tis not possible!”

  Richard jerked his hand away. Of course she would defend her father. But he couldn’t say why it felt like a sword thrust to his heart. “Do not tell me what is possible, Princess. I have fought too many battles, seen too many English corpses, to not know what the Welsh are capable of.”

  “And you have slaughtered countless Welshmen in retaliation for what you believe!”

  He gripped her arms suddenly. “What would you have me do, daughter of Llywelyn? Should I let them terrorize English towns? Burn out farmers and peasants? Steal their cows and pigs?”

  Gwen stared at him through wide eyes, her face only inches from his. “I-I do not know. But there must be a better way.”

  “Jesú, why did you have to be Llywelyn’s daughter?” He let her go, then sat up and raked his hands through his hair. “Nothing good will ever come of this union. To you I am an evil murderer, and to me—” He took a deep breath. “To me, you are a living reminder of the man I’ve sworn to kill.”

  Gwen scrambled upright and grabbed two fistfuls of his surcoat. “You cannot kill him! You signed a treaty of friendship. I’ll not let you do it!”